


to conquer an ordeal

by jellyjamjelly



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Enjolras Being An Idiot, Hurt Enjolras, M/M, Magic-Users, Patriasexual Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, Self-Indulgent, Somewhat, Warlocks, but a nervous wreck here, but really it's mutual pining, but seriously, combeferre's a great guy, don't fuck with blood infections, enjolras seriously almost dies, listen to your friends enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 09:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14931999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyjamjelly/pseuds/jellyjamjelly
Summary: “You published that essay, about the King.” His tone quivers, as though he doesn’t know whether to make it a question or a statement. It comes out as a whisper. “About his thievery from the people and his fraudulent power.”“I did,” Enjolras says, expression more puzzled than concerned, not understanding the gravity of the situation. “Someone had to write the truth, and I wield the Gift of Words. It had to be done.”---enjolras is accused of libel by the king and challenged to an ordeal of combat -- Gifted combat. things don't turn out so well.





	to conquer an ordeal

**Author's Note:**

> it's my first time writing for this fandom + my first writing fantasy and magicky stuff in general (a lot of inspo came from the last herald mage series which i'm still reading) 
> 
> taking some extreme liberties with some medical stuff because **magic**
> 
> also taking some liberties with medieval times stuff because ***magic***
> 
> also unbetaed :( and entirely self-indulgent

The Declaration arrives at midday, and Grantaire is the first to notice. He watches it materialise, fragile strands of golden fibre weaving together to form a thin sheet. The letters fade in slowly, ink scrawled across the page. Behind him, Combeferre and Enjolras are occupied, bent over a heavy tome while Enjolras listens to Combeferre explain the intricacies of the body and which runes could be the most useful in healing different maladies. The magicked sheet hovers for a while before drifting to rest on the tavern floor.

 _Declaration of Ordeal_ , the bold print reads. Dread unfurls in Grantaire’s chest. Who has he spited this time? He has laid low in the past year, frequenting only the Musain and the Corinthe with Les Amis, and for better or for worse, drinking less. He’s careful where he treads now, after the incident with Montparnasse, a man who conned his way into nobility.

The sheet itself is masterfully woven. It doesn’t begin to crumble when Grantaire picks it up, as magicked sheets created by novice warlocks often do. Magically creating something with a process as intricate and fine as paper is notoriously difficult. Even more so at a distance. It doesn’t even tear when Grantaire tries. It must have been sent by a powerful warlock whose services were sought by someone prominent. Not anyone Montparnasse could afford.

He reads it over quickly and finds it is not addressed to him, but Enjolras. He registers the words _libel_ and _king_ and _combat_ before he realises that his own magic, his Gift of Nullification, is making the page crinkle around the edges and disintegrate. Panic makes him lose control over his magic, and he can feel the panic now rising in his chest, growing like a shadow in the winter. He drops the sheet abruptly before it can disintegrate further, and the sharp movement alerts Combeferre.

Combeferre walks over to where the sheet has fallen and removes it from the floor. His face becomes increasingly grim as he reads.

“You published that essay, about the King.” His tone quivers, as though he doesn’t know whether to make it a question or a statement. It comes out as a whisper. “About his thievery from the people and his fraudulent power.”

“I did,” Enjolras says. His expression is more puzzled than concerned, not understanding the gravity of the situation. “Someone had to write the truth, and I wield the Gift of Words. It had to be done.”

Anger stirs in Grantaire’s chest, both fueled by and warring against his affection for Enjolras. Grantaire wants to shake him and shout and plead, wants to make him understand that death has a blast radius, that the death of one person afflicts many more lives than the one that has passed. Grantaire wants to show Enjolras how deeply he has burrowed into Grantaire’s life, how Grantaire could never see him as a martyr if all he’d ever feel is hollowed by the prospect of Enjolras’ death. But he knows Enjolras will not listen. Enjolras, who regards his life as less important than the greater cause of society. Enjolras, who does not understand that it is human life like his own that makes society a worthy cause to fight for. Enjolras, who is as infuriating as he is obsessive, who is as stubborn as he is brilliant, who is as beautiful as he is wrathful. Enjolras, who Grantaire wholly devotes himself to.

Instead, Grantaire takes the Declaration out of Combeferre’s hands -- which he is sure that Combeferre has already memorised to the last apostrophe -- and folds it roughly into his own palm. When Grantaire opens his hand again, grey dust escapes through the cracks of his fingers.

“What will you do?” Grantaire asks, voice harsh and low. The ashy remains of the Declaration cling to the creases of his palm. “The King has challenged you to Gifted combat, unless you apologise and retract your statement.”  

Enjolras scoffs, and Grantaire wonders how a man so clever can be so obtuse about the welfare of his own life. “Gifted combat?” Enjolras laughs, derisive and mocking. “The King does not have any Gifts. He is no warlock.” He spits the last word, as though he were spitting on the ground of the King’s court.

When Combeferre speaks, it is quiet, but his tone is sharp, coloured with something else that Grantaire can’t quite place at first. He realises a moment later that he has never heard fear in Combeferre’s voice before. “The King has the right to appoint a person to stand in his place of combat. And from this Declaration, it is clear that this warlock is no novice. A Master, I suspect, of several Gifts.”

Gifts do not manifest easily in people. Having one is already rare, although Grantaire chooses to surround himself by warlocks and witches, with Les Amis being a guild for the Gifted. Having several is nigh impossible, almost always obtained through nefarious means. One can learn other channels of magic, but it is impossible to gain mastery over magic that does not pertain to one’s own Gift. Grantaire has only met one warlock with more than one Gift before, a practitioner of dark magic. Fear weighs heavily in his heart.

Enjolras no longer laughs; instead, his face is stony, set with determination. Grantaire curses himself for falling for this foolish, _foolish_ man. Every martyr is a fool. And Enjolras, the biggest fool of them all. “I will not apologise nor rescind my words,” Enjolras says, turning back to the tome. “I do not grovel at the feet of false monarchs.”

 

The Ordeal is set for a fortnight from the day the Declaration was sent. The Musain is flocked for the next few days, members of the Guild showing up at the tavern trying to dissuade Enjolras. They hold him each in turn and ask him to reconsider. When they fail, they plead with Combeferre, asking how this has come about, why Enjolras couldn’t have chosen something else, imploring Combeferre to change Enjolras’ mind. Grantaire knows it pains Combeferre deeply when all he can do is turn away and say, “He wouldn’t be convinced to do otherwise.”

It is futile, Grantaire thinks, as he watches Jehan plead with Enjolras. Jehan, too, has the Gift of Words, but uses it in ways much different than Enjolras. He uses it for poetry and art, to soothe or inspire rather than to persuade, as Enjolras does. Jehan cannot sway Enjolras’ mind, but even through a haze of drink, Grantaire sees Enjolras’ hands go white knuckled at his side. Whether trying to fight Jehan’s magic or his own fear, Grantaire does not know.

Grantaire falls back, too quickly, into his old drinking habits. If Enjolras had not been so gripped by the preparations of his own death, he would have noticed and reprimanded Grantaire for it. But it seems Enjolras sinks deeper and deeper into his own mind, studying runes in the day, writing essays through the night. There always seems to be more to say, more to write, more to tell. Enjolras writes frantically, as though caught between fear for his own life and the fear that the truths of the land will be buried and never be brought to light.  

Every time Grantaire awakes from alcohol-induced slumbers, face sticky against the wine-ridden wooden bar, even in the early hours of the morning when the only ones left in the tavern are those too drunk to stand up and go home, he sees Enjolras hunched over another page, words flowing from an Enchanted quill. Even Combeferre cannot coax him into rest, and Grantaire doesn’t dare try. The shadows under Enjolras’ eyes grow deeper and darker, his cheekbones seem to cut into his skin, and the golden curls become matted and unruly. It is not the Ordeal itself that is torture, Grantaire thinks, but the days leading up to it.

Two days from the Ordeal, Enjolras stops writing, hands trembling and pale from fatigue. He leaves behind a pile of essays for Combeferre to publish for him posthumously should he not succeed in combat. He disappears for two days from the Musain, and when Grantaire sees him again, it is on the morning of the Ordeal.

Enjolras is washed, not looking quite rested still, but better. The shadows under his eyes are dark, but not so stark against too-pale skin. He wears a tunic that bares his arms and is belted at his waist, with knives and pouches hanging from it. He has runes painted on his skin in black ink, from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers and around the collar of his neck with hardly an inch of bare skin to spare. Another day, another time, Grantaire might have appreciated the sight, but now, he only feels sick to the stomach. He has to swallow a few times, lest he lose the contents of his stomach to the ground, even though it can only be the dregs of his drink last night.

It looks _wrong_ on Enjolras, an ill-fitting costume. Enjolras is a warlock with the Gift of Words, a scholar, a preacher -- not a fighter. His Gift is not suited at all to the Ordeal of Combat, and yet, he stalks into the square where his opponent stands, hooded and posture calm, unlike Enjolras who looks too tightly wound up, like yarn about to snap.

Grantaire looks around the square, and sees no King.

Instead, he sees Combeferre standing at the edge of the square gripping a rolled piece of paper, looking as though he is fighting the urge to close his fist entirely around the piece of paper and rip it up. It doesn’t come as a surprise to Grantaire; he had always been expecting this. Frustration and fury and grief swell inside him, rising in his throat like bile. Because _of course_ , Enjolras had come here to die. He’d come to die in defiance of a King who hadn’t even cared enough to show up. He’d come to die fighting one of the King’s pawns while no mark would be made on the King himself. Enjolras might as well have come to grovel at the feet of the King.

Grantaire wonders who the bigger fool is, himself or Enjolras.

Grantaire’s unease crawls and buzzes beneath his skin. He trembles with the want to sprint into the square and drag Enjolras away, but he knows Enjolras would detest him for it. Grantaire wants to scrub those runes from Enjolras’ skin, the runes of fire and thunder scrawled under his elbow, basic runes for healing in the dip of his throat, runes to dull pain on the top of his spine, runes to draw water and freeze into ice resting on his collarbone. Runes for increased strength on his right bicep, runes for stamina peeking out from under the tunic over his ribs, runes for speed on his calves, runes for shield on his forearms, runes for strength of steel on his blade.

Even a warlock with a Gift of Words cannot talk or persuade their way out of combat.

Enjolras has no physical or elemental magic, no magic he can truly use for combat except for the magic he draws from runes. But magic drawn from runes must travel through extra channels and gates, and thus, never comes out as strong as the magic drawn from the fields of their Gifts. Warlocks with the Gift of the Elements will always wield fire, air, and water better than any warlock who draws them from runes or stores them in objects. But words are the only way Enjolras knows how to fight, and the runes are Enjolras’ attempt at combative magic. Still, Grantaire knows they won’t be enough.

The King’s Appointed wields only a staff, and that strikes more fear within Grantaire than any other weapon could.

The Overseer, face impassive, raises his hand in signal, and Enjolras barely has time to react to the fireball that tears through the square. Grantaire sees a crease in the Overseer’s pocket that looks distinctly like coin. Underhanded tactics, it seems, will be allowed in this Ordeal. Grantaire sees the fire as it erupts from the staff of the King’s Appointed. Grantaire sees Enjolras raise his forearms to shield, but without enough time to prepare for the impact of the flame. It throws Enjolras backwards onto the ground with sheer force. He pushes himself back up a moment later, but Grantaire sees him lightly touch the runes on the back of his neck and on his throat. His forearms are red from the fire, the shields not strong or complex enough to handle the effects of unbearable heat. There is the faintest of tremors around his knees; he’s obviously trying to still them. Fear, Grantaire knows. His own jaw is set so tightly that he aches with the tension. He sees the other members of Les Amis scattered around at the plaza, all like himself, straining against the desire to pull their leader out of the square.

Enjolras sends back fire of his own, pulling from his runes, but it is a faint echo of what the King’s Appointed had done. The opponent laughs as he flicks his staff to dispel the streams of flame and thunder and ice that Enjolras directs his way. Enjolras’ Elemental magic is far better than anything many warlocks would be able to achieve using mere runes, but the King’s Appointed seems to have both the Gift of Elements and the Gift of Nullification. Perhaps more. Grantaire grits his teeth. At this rate, Enjolras would only exhaust himself before he could open an opportunity to strike. Magical exhaustion is far more deadly than physical exhaustion.

Grantaire doesn’t realise his own fists are sparking with magic, not even his Gift, but just pure magical energy, until he sees that there is nobody at his side anymore, his own magic creating a deterring barrier between him and the rest of the crowd. The feeling of helplessness winds around him like vine, threatening to choke him. His fingers itch for the flask, just so he can _breathe_. When he drinks, even as he loses control over his physical capacities, he at least gets the consolation that he is doing this to himself, that he has willed himself into a state of helplessness. But here, watching Enjolras throw out futile attacks and expend himself, knees struggling to hold his body up, Grantaire feels _trapped_ in his helplessness, an unwilling participant in this loss of control, unable to do anything for the person he cares too much about.

His fingers find the cold metal of the flask, but he hesitates. He’d never forgive himself if Enjolras somehow had needed Grantaire, but he had been too drunk to do anything. He’s failed Enjolras before because of drink, and the contempt from Enjolras (and himself) had been nothing new, but the other times hadn’t involved life or death. What if he missed Enjolras’ death in a drink-induced slumber? The prospect seems all too possible and all too terrifying. The desire, however, is overwhelming. It tingles under his skin, and he wants, so, so badly. His fingers move of its own accord, and he almost has the flask un-stopped before it is snatched out of his hands and the drink emptied onto the ground.

He turns around, furious, but sees Bahorel, the flask in his hand, his face grave. He places a hand on Grantaire’s arm. “Don’t,” Bahorel says, voice uncharacteristically soft. “We’ll fix this.”

 _How_ , Grantaire wants to ask. Bahorel, hearing Grantaire’s unsaid question, shrugs. He has the Gift of Foresight, but his Gift is untrained, and he can’t control what he sees or hears. They watch Enjolras throw out a stream of fire and water together, which combines into steam before the King’s Appointed can dispel it. Obscured by the mist, Enjolras moves in closer to his opponent and slashes open a leather pouch on his hip with a knife. Liquid sloshes out of it, and Enjolras cuts across his palm with his knife, wetting his hands with blood and potion. It’s a life-binding potion, Grantaire realises. His stomach drops. All Enjolras would have to do is get close enough to draw blood from the King’s Appointed and mix it with the potion. He could simply press his potion-wet palm against his opponent’s wound, and the deed would be done. With this potion, when one dies, the other would too. It’s clever and mad and _suicidal_ , and Grantaire feels like he’s swallowed his own heart.  

Bahorel’s head snaps around to across the square, a bewildered look in his eyes. Grantaire follows his gaze to Combeferre who’s shifting on his feet, clenching and unclenching his one free hand, as though fighting the urge to join Enjolras. Instead he turns away from the square, and runs out of the plaza, disappearing into the crowd.

Bahorel whips his gaze back to Grantaire. His eyes look manic. “Just take Enjolras and run. Joly’s. You’ll know when.” And he also disappears into the crowd.

Enjolras doesn’t get the chance to finish what he started. The King’s Appointed waves away the mist, and before Enjolras can close in with his knife, his opponent moves away on swift feet and touches him lightly with his staff on the back of Enjolras’ neck.

It’s instantaneous. Enjolras startles, trying to twist back to his opponent, but crumples forward instead. There is silence from the crowd, as though drawing a collective breath. Enjolras isn’t even able to catch himself on his hands and knees as he falls, loose-limbed and stunned while the King’s Appointed steps out of the way, raising his staff -- for the next blow or as a sign of victory, Grantaire doesn’t know, doesn’t really care.

Grantaire’s surging forward before he knows it. It’s dirty, absolutely fucking _dirty_ , this kind of magic. He can see the mark forming on Enjolras’ spine, a blood-red web creeping and extending underneath his skin, eating away at the runes for pain and healing. He releases the magic energy he’s been holding in his fist throughout the Ordeal, channeling it through his Gift of Nullification without direction. It stops the next wave of magic from the King’s Appointed, who lowers his staff when Grantaire curls protectively around Enjolras. He places a palm on the back of Enjolras’ neck, channeling his Gift to hopefully, _hopefully_ , stop the spell, and hooks his other arm under Enjolras’ knees, hoisting him up.

He looks up at the King’s Appointed. The hood hides much of his face, but Grantaire sees the cruel twist around the lips. Lips that say, “He’s not going to live much longer. Just wanted to give him a quick, merciful death.”

The crowd’s shouting now, angry jeers, stones thrown, stomps on the ground. The Overseer rushes over, but he’s old and slow, and Grantaire is already out of the square and shoving his way through the crowd, sending out bursts of pure magical energy to scare the non-Gifted enough to jump out of the way.

He runs to Joly’s, who lives only five minutes from the Plaza, trying not to jostle Enjolras too much. Enjolras is tall and a little heavier than his slender frame would suggest, but his skin is flushed and clammy with tremors that shudder through his body, and it urges Grantaire to go faster. He tumbles through Joly’s open door and tears through the apartment to place Enjolras on the bed, keeping his palm on the back of Enjolras’ neck.

The rest of Les Amis are already here, getting to work as soon as they come through the door. Musichetta checks and replaces the wards on Joly’s flat against any intruders, while Joly appears in the bedroom carrying a tray and a basin.

“That was blood magic,” Grantaire grits through his teeth. “The bastard used _blood_ magic.” Dark magic derived, _twisted_ from the Gift of Healing. It’s _repulsive_ , to use magic for healing to create magic for injury and death. Grantaire looks up at Combeferre who’s carding his fingers through Enjolras’ sweat-matted hair and placing a wet towel on his forehead. He looks ill, perhaps from seeing the effects of blood magic up close, as a warlock with the Gift of Healing. His eyes are mournful, and when he speaks, they are not the words Grantaire wants to hear.

“I don’t think I can heal him,” Combeferre says. Grantaire still has his fingers on Enjolras’ neck, magic channeling into him. “You can stop the magic with your Gift, but it is his blood that has become infected, and there is little we can do to magic that away.” He has his fingers clasped around Enjolras’, his tone resigned and already grieving, and somehow that angers Grantaire even more.  

“There are non-magical ways,” Grantaire snaps. He knows Combeferre specialises in the healing of magical maladies -- curses, magical exhaustion, unwanted effects of magic and potions -- but Enjolras _can’t_ die. He looks over to the tray Joly had left, sharp instruments lining the metal surface. There are ways, Grantaire knows. He’s never seen anyone survive blood magic, but he’s _heard_ , and that’s enough.

Joly reappears with more towels and water. He’s not Gifted, but he is a physician, brought in to Les Amis by Bossuet and Musichetta, and Grantaire couldn’t be more grateful for his presence. He picks up a lancet and considers. “Because it is a blood infection, we shall have to bloodlet,” Joly decides, turning to Grantaire. “You must fully dispel the magic before we begin. The blood magic will interfere with his recovery.”   

It’s easy for Grantaire to break a spell and nullify magic; he’s never really had problems manipulating his Gift. But as he starts pulling the spell out, Enjolras’ breath stutters and his hands twitch. Grantaire hesitates, fear lodged in his throat. The blood magic resists its extraction, and when Grantaire tugs a little harder, Enjolras makes a terrifying choking noise, his eyes flying open where they had been shut from exhaustion.

Combeferre tears Grantaire’s hand away, horrified, and they watch as the spell inches outward. Grantaire places his palm back on the spell, stopping it from spreading, but no longer pulling at it.

“The bastard wove the blood magic into his spinal nerves,” Combeferre says, quiet and frowning. It makes sense, the way Enjolras had collapsed bodily onto the ground with only a light tap to his neck. “We can’t simply pull the magic out. It has to be untangled.”

Joly looks up worried where he’d been wiping down his instruments. “We can’t wait much longer- we must start the bloodletting before the infection becomes pervasive. Grantaire, can you work while I bleed him?”

“Bloodletting has an extremely low recovery rate, and losing blood like this in such a weakened state-” Combeferre shakes his head. “There must be some other way.”

“Do you have any other way?” Joly snaps, but the tremor in his voice belies his irritation. “He’ll die in a few minutes if we don’t do anything. If there is any chance, we must take it.”

Bahorel is ushered in from his place guarding the door. He holds down Enjolras’ shoulders, face stoic, while Joly prepares to bleed his patient. Grantaire’s not sure what Bahorel is seeing; he’s not sure he wants to ask.

The first cut has Enjolras flinching away, but Bahorel catches his wrist easily, and weak with pain and exhaustion, Enjolras goes limp, unresisting. It’s disquieting, Grantaire thinks, to see Enjolras so docile, so helpless, unable to draw upon the fervor and intensity that had seemed before to come to him so naturally.

Joly collects the blood in the basin, and Grantaire tries to keep his gaze away from the red dripping sluggishly onto silver. He focuses on taking the blood magic thread by thread, unraveling it from each nerve with Combeferre using his Gift to see. It’s delicate work, one that cannot afford many distractions for the risk that it could permanently immobilise Enjolras. But Enjolras can’t stop the small tremors that shudder through his body, the soft keening, the way his muscles contract impulsively when the blade meets his skin. It jostles Grantaire’s handiwork, and Grantaire’s tense, so tense, his shoulders are beginning to ache, his fingers are starting to twitch, and his magic doesn’t flow as freely. The threads snap instead of unravel, and Grantaire needs a drink, really, really needs a drink.

He can feel Enjolras grow weaker and weaker. Enjolras’ pulse slows and goes faint with the loss of blood while Grantaire’s own seems to beat even harder. It doesn’t feel right, that Grantaire is standing there, listening to his own heart beat while Enjolras is dying. It is so contrary to what Grantaire had believed his life would be, that he’d be drinking himself to an early grave while Enjolras stood and spoke and _lived_. The world has ceased to make sense, he reasons.

Grantaire works slowly, carefully, and by the time he’s finished, Joly is cleaning the wounds and closing them with needle and thread. Enjolras is still pale, hands cold and clammy, but forehead and neck burning with fever. He doesn’t look any better than before, but it is all they can do, to hopefully have bled the infection away and dispelled the blood magic.

“The rest is up to him,” Joly says, placing a hand in Enjolras’ curls as  Combeferre tips potion down Enjolras’ throat -- brews for producing blood and increasing strength. Joly’s eyes shine in the firelight, and Grantaire knows that what they have done is not enough.

Grantaire passes the next few days by Enjolras’ bedside, watching him toss and turn, always there when Enjolras would slip in and out of consciousness. The bottle is never far away, but Grantaire drinks only enough to bear the urge, not enough to descend into a haze. Combeferre stays at the bedside with Grantaire, taking an hour or two everyday to use his own Gift, pulling out specks in his blood that do not seem like they should be there. “It’s the infection,” Combeferre says. But the task is so demanding with sight and skill that it works Combeferre to magical exhaustion at the end of every session, and he emerges from the room each time bones weary and eyes bloodshot.

Grantaire helps Joly replace the ice towel on Enjolras’ forehead every four hours, helps him drink strengthening and blood potions whenever Enjolras comes into weak consciousness, wipes the sweat off his brow and neck and back, and still, Enjolras grows emaciated, unable to swallow food. Combeferre conceives a potion recipe for nutrient provision and disappears for a day to brew it. When he reappears, he looks close to collapsing from fatigue, both physical and magical while Grantaire watches, able only to offer an arm and a shoulder to hold the Healer up. Grantaire has often felt useless, but he’s never found his own magic as useless as it is now.  

He craves the company of the rest of Les Amis; perhaps he wouldn’t feel so helpless if they were here. They visit Enjolras and bring Grantaire drink, but they leave as quickly as they arrive, busy with the task of warding off the King’s men and perhaps, agonised over the prospect of their friend’s passing.

Grantaire craves their company, and yet, it is only when it is just him and Enjolras that he allows himself to take Enjolras’ hand. He clasps their palms together, feeling Enjolras’ heat and slow pulse, signs that Enjolras is still alive, and allows himself to hope.

 

It is not until a week later that Enjolras wakes to full consciousness.

Grantaire rouses from his own restless sleep with a weight in his palm and a clear, blue gaze, no longer hazy with pain and exhaustion, searching his face.

Enjolras’ grip is still weak, but firm. His eyes hold too much that Grantaire can’t decipher, but he recognises regret laced with guilt, frustration tinged with remorse. There is also a tenderness in Enjolras’ gaze that Grantaire has seldom seen from Enjolras, and it takes a moment for Grantaire to recognise it; the way Enjolras sometimes looks at Combeferre and the other Les Amis with such affection and gratitude. Grantaire almost does not allow himself to believe it, to hope that it is intended for him, but the emotion that Enjolras is allowing him to see is so sincere and honest that it warms Grantaire to his last toe.

Enjolras turns their clasped hands over and squeezes gently. It’s a simple gesture, chaste really, but it makes Grantaire’s breath stutter in his throat. Enjolras swallows, even as his eyes continue to search Grantaire’s, as though to ask, _why_?

“Thank you,” Enjolras says instead, voice rough and low from disuse. He looks away, shy and so unlike himself, then down at their hands, and says again, a little louder, “ _thank you._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> big books exist because of magical printing, duh (not historically accurate, i know -- it _is_ fantasy) 
> 
> the blood magic is akin to inducing sepsis in a person, and no, bloodletting doesn't actually work (unless i guess it's starving the bacterium by taking away the blood cells, but in this day and age, pls go to an actual hospital and let antibiotics do its work)
> 
> i didn't really get grantaire's voice where i wanted it to be; i'll do better next time maybe
> 
> please do drop a comment, or yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/satokairin) and/or [tumblr](https://jellyjamjelly.tumblr.com/) about stupid french revolutionaries


End file.
